Depraved Difference (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery Book #1) Page 5

  “No!”

  She startled herself, not having heard her own voice spoken beyond a whisper in weeks. It was enough to shock her from her bout of self-pity. She wiped the tears off her face and rose to her feet. Removing her shirt, she wrapped it around the chain that still bound her to the ceiling, then, using her handcuffed hand, she looped the cloth covered chain around her neck, momentarily appreciating the irony that what had kept her prisoner would soon set her free. She knew it would be painful, but nothing compared to the pain she had already experienced. With the chain secure around her neck, she relaxed her knees and dropped toward the floor, gravity slowly tightening its grip. The pain wasn’t as bad as she had feared, the cloth from the shirt softening the chain’s pinch at first. It tightened with every inch she lowered herself, the pain taking hold soon replaced by a far worse sensation. Suffocation. She gasped for breath, the reflex actions of her body not succeeding, the chain now too tight to let any air pass. She fought the urge to get up, knowing if she did she would have to go through this all again. Her gasps became shorter and shorter, her clouded mind no longer able to resist her survival instinct. Her suffocating body demanded she stand. With her one hand chained close to her neck, she was forced to reach with the other to try and pull herself up using the now tight chain. Grasping at it above her head she tried to lift her body to relieve the pressure. For a moment she tasted the sweet relief of a tiny amount of air making its way into her lungs. She pulled harder. Her oxygen deprived body unable to coordinate the attempt at self-preservation, her bare feet slipped on the dirt floor and she flipped over, her feet now extended out in front of her, her body facing upward, her full weight pulling on the chain as her arms and legs flailed, all coordination now lost. It took less than a minute for her to blackout from the lack of oxygen, the Technicolor display provided by her brain not the least bit interesting to her in her final moments.

  Aynslee’s eyes drooped as she dialed what must be the fortieth number in the past two hours. As soon as the detective had left, she had written down the name he had mentioned, Tammera Coverdale, then confirmed with Legal the police hadn't released the identity yet and got the green-light to run with it. At the moment all she could do was report on the video clips themselves, but now she had a name. And she also knew the police didn't have names for the second set of victims, meaning they probably hadn’t even found them yet, a story in itself. She had searched the Internet for hours, calling every listing for Coverdale she found. Three dozen phone calls to New York based Coverdale’s had proven a bust. She had moved on to Jersey, the fourth listing for Coverdale, Hugh and Elise. Work with me, Jersey! The phone rang in the earpiece of her headset, pulled low on her ear to lower the volume. It rang several times, Aynslee’s finger hovering over the button to end the call. Her heart leapt and she yanked her finger away as the clicking sound of a handset being lifted off its base crackled through the earpiece. She shoved it into position and took a breath.

  Silence.

  She waited a few more seconds, unsure of what to do, then decided to speak first. “Hello, my name is Aynslee Kai, I work for WACX News, I—.”

  “Leave us alone!” a woman’s voice cried, then the line was cut.

  Bingo! Aynslee snatched her purse and jacket off her coat rack, ran down the hall and grabbed a camera crew.

  Lance, not his real name, twirled the straw in his definitely not virgin Shirley Temple and stared at the vision in front of him. He was all man, he could tell. Tight jeans showed off his firm ass (he had checked!), a white denim shirt, untucked with the first three buttons open, displayed his tight, sweaty chest to the world. Lance was swooning. He's sooo cute! A little young maybe, but that just meant he would get a chance to teach him a few new tricks that would change the boy's life forever. They had talked for about fifteen minutes, every moment of it perfection! I have to have this dreamboat!

  He was dancing with a long time on-and-off partner, when he spotted this vision eyeing him from the bar. A quick smile fired in his direction was enough for Lance to abandon his partner on the dance floor and sachet over to the bar. Introductions (his name was Charles!), a round of drinks, and a little bit of leg and arm rubbing, and he was ready to do anything this boy wanted. Anything!

  “It's kind of loud in here, you wanna go somewhere quieter, where we can...” Charles paused and looked at Lance slyly as he ran his finger from under Lance’s ear, down his neck then as far down his bare chest as he could, yanking at the top button of his shirt. He leaned in and bit Lance’s earlobe, then whispered, “Talk?”

  Lance didn’t know if his loins leapt more from the throaty whisper or the red-hot touch, but it didn’t matter. You dirty dog! Talk indeed! He threw his boa around his neck, took Charles by the hand and dragged him from the club. They hadn't even made it a block when Lance couldn’t help himself. He dragged Charles into an alleyway, shoved him against the wall, and ground his hips into him. Reaching down between his legs to check out his package, he cooed, “Oooh, is that for me?”

  Charles smiled and reached into his pocket, pulling out a couple of tablets. “E?” Lance nodded and stuck out his tongue, closing his eyes. Feeling Charles place the tablet on the end of his tongue, he flipped it back into his mouth and swallowed. He opened his eyes and turned his head to the side, kissing his young delight on the side of the neck, then flicking his tongue over his Adam’s apple. He looked up and a mischievous feeling spread over him. Slowly he dropped to his knees and unbuckled Charles' belt. As he undid the fly he felt the Earth start to spin but kept going, determined to reach his prize. He fumbled with the button, his fingers suddenly uncoordinated, then collapsed.

  Aynslee burst from the station van, her camera man and sound engineer scrambling to keep up. She rushed up the steps to the Coverdale’s small Cape Cod style home and, when everyone was in position, rang the doorbell. Her heart pounded as she waited, thinking of the scoop that had fallen into her lap. This was huge. Not only would she be revealing exclusively to the world who the victim was, but also get an interview with the family to boot. I wonder have they been notified? She had a moment of doubt about what she was doing, then shoved it aside. If they know the name, then of course they’ve notified the family. As they continued to wait, her excitement started to wane. Are they not home? After a minute with no answer, she rang again and knocked several times, but still no one came. She tried to peer through the glass block window to the side and in desperation placed her ear to the door. She listened for a moment and thought she heard sobbing. She decided to take a chance and motioned to the cameraman to start rolling. The red light on, she leaned closer to the door. “Mrs. Coverdale, this is Aynslee Kai, WACX News, I'd like to talk to you about your daughter, Tammera.” She listened and this time heard a definite cry from the other side of the door, near the floor. “She's in there,” she whispered to her crew, pointing toward the door and down. Lowering her voice, she tried to soothe the door open. “Ma'am, I'm the reporter who was sent the footage of your daughter's murder. I'm just as confused as you are about all of this, and I'd like to talk to you about it, to find out what kind of a person your daughter was so the world can know she was an innocent victim, not somebody caught up in some sordid affair.” The sound guy, Steve, gave a thumbs up as they heard someone unbolt the door.

  Aynslee doubted the friends of the poor, disheveled woman who opened the door would recognize her, her eyes bloodshot, her nose bright red and swollen from crying, her hair in knots, having not seen a brush in days. She was gaunt, her face pale, her cheeks sunken, dark circles under her eyes adding years to her face. She was a woman who had lost the will to live. When she saw the camera pointed at her she yelped and slammed the door shut.

  “No cameras!”

  Aynslee waved off her cameraman, Mike, who nodded and turned off the light but left it recording, aimed at the ground. “I've turned off the camera, Mrs. Coverdale. Can I speak to you now?” The door slowly opened again and they saw the middle-aged woman step back and hea
d deeper into the house without saying a word. Aynslee looked at Mike and Steve, shrugged her shoulders and stepped inside, following the woman. They found her sitting in a chair in her living room, hugging a throw pillow.

  Aynslee sat across from her and pulled out a notepad. “Ma'am, first let me start off by saying how truly sorry I am about your loss.” She looked at a picture sitting on the end table next to her of a young woman. It was hard to be certain, but she bore a definite resemblance to the victim. “Is this her?” The woman nodded. “What can you tell me about her?” Aynslee jotted down the name emblazoned on the school sweater worn in the photo.

  The woman took a deep breath, as if steeling herself for what she was about to say. “She was a wonderful child, our only child. She had a terrific job that was taking her places and she had a fiancé who loved her very much. They were getting married this fall.”

  Aynslee scribbled in her pad. “And what was the fiancé's name?”

  “Jeremy Rush. They were so much in love. They planned on having children right away.” Her voice cracked. “Grandbabies,” she whispered as she bent over and burst into tears, her hand reaching blindly for a tissue from the box sitting next to her.

  Aynslee opened her mouth to ask another question, but found her voice cracking as the enormity of what she was doing hit. Someone died! This is real, this isn’t an out on the town segment! She closed her mouth and waved her hand back and forth in front of her neck. This time Mike turned the camera off for real. Aynslee knew she wasn’t going to get anything else from the distraught woman, and didn’t want to regardless. She had enough to throw together a small segment for the next newscast; it would have to be enough. Rising, she walked over and placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and said softly, “I'm truly sorry.” She motioned to her crew and they walked out the door, a sobbing victim left behind, Aynslee fighting back her own tears, her crew uncharacteristically quiet.

  Elise heard the door click shut, the reporters gone. She curled her legs up under her and leaned over, resting her head on the arm of the La-Z-Boy recliner, still hugging the pillow. Her body racked in sobs, every muscle ached from crying for days. My baby is gone! She couldn’t understand why. Why would God do this to her? Why would God take her child from her? No parent should have to outlive their child. This isn’t right! She looked up at the ceiling and through it, as if directly into God’s eyes. Damn you! She wailed. She was losing her faith. That, combined with her grief, was leading to a spiral of depression she didn’t care if she ever came out of. She didn’t want to. She pictured her precious, beautiful, baby daughter. First steps, first words, first day at school. Last supper, last hug goodbye, last wave from the curb, last phone call, last sound of her voice.

  And where the hell was her husband? Why wasn’t he there to support her? She knew he was hurting as much as she was, but he was too much the traditional male. He needed to be on his own to grieve; no one could see him cry. But she needed him. Here. Now. I can’t be alone. And at that moment she knew exactly what she needed to do. She needed to be with Tammera. Standing, she strode with purpose to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out the bottle of sleeping pills prescribed to her husband months before. Opening the bottle, she poured them into her mouth as she heard the front door open.

  Merissa awoke to pain, excruciating pain around her neck from where the chain had bitten into and torn her flesh, the shirt she had wrapped around it only delaying the inevitable. But it was nothing compared to the searing, jolting shock she experienced when she took that first breath. It felt as if someone had punched her full force in the throat, her collapsed esophagus trying to pop back into shape as her body forced air through it. She focused on her breathing as she tried to control the pain, keeping her breaths slow and steady. The pain gradually subsided as her airway returned to normal. Her instincts forced a wave of relief to flow through her as she realized she was alive, but as more oxygen made it into her system she became aware of her surroundings. She lay on the basement floor, the light gently swung above her, the platform still in place, the chain removed, not only from around her neck, but her wrist as well. She wore a fresh blouse, her old one nowhere to be found. I've failed! Her relief turned back to despair as she grasped that she was still alive, the exact opposite of what she had hoped to achieve. She had failed, and now with the chain removed, might never get another chance.

  A creak overhead snapped her back to reality, signaling the return of her captor and the lowering of the platform, but instead of food, she saw a pair of legs standing on it. Her pulse raced as he pulled on the chain, the thumping in her chest gained strength as his ankles, knees and then waist were revealed,. The platform was half way down when she saw he had his back to her, an opportunity she dared not pass up. She rose, careful to remain out of sight, and on adrenaline alone, her body still weak from her ordeal, she charged the platform, throwing herself at it as hard as she could. The platform swung away from her, the chains groaning in protest, her captor letting out a surprised yelp as he fell backward and toppled off the platform. His head hit the ground hard, knocking him senseless.

  Merissa struggled onto the platform, grasped the chain, and pulled on it. Her first few tugs did little, but she kept going, fighting the instinct to try and climb the chain like a rope in gym class, knowing she wouldn’t have the strength to make it. As the platform inched toward the hole, and freedom above, she never took her eyes off her captor. She heard him groan and roll over onto his back, his hand reaching up to touch the back of his head. “Come on!” she cried, furiously pulling on the chain, tears flowing freely, her heart pumping so hard she heard the blood pulsing in her ears like a drummer nearing the end of a tribal dance. She watched as he shook his head and when their eyes made contact, he realized what was happening. He struggled to his feet, jumped up and grasped the platform edge. “No!” she screamed as it rocked under his weight. She reached up and gripped the floor above. Pulling herself up, she swung her right leg over as he did the same on the platform below. She almost had her second leg up when she felt an iron grip on her foot pull her down. She grasped at the floor with her hands, desperate to find something to grab on to.

  “Help!” she screamed, her partially crushed windpipe limiting the volume. As he pulled her further down, she flipped over onto her back, dropped her free foot below the floor and kicked with all her might. It connected and the grip loosened as she heard a groan of pain. Tearing her foot free, she rolled back onto the floor, jumped to her feet and ran into the darkened room. She bumped into a table and grasped around for something, anything she might use as a weapon, but found nothing. A grunt behind her caused her to spin around and watch as he struggled up off the platform, the light from her prison silhouetting his upper body, all semblance of humanity lost, replaced by the image of a beast crawling from a primeval pit in pursuit of its prey. Charging forward she ran headlong into a wall, then feeling along it she found a doorway and stumbled through. She raced down a hallway, screaming for help the entire time. There has to be a door at the end of this! She heard his shoes squeak on the floor as she hit the door at the end of the hall hard. She recovered and groped for the doorknob and after several precious seconds found it. It turned in her hand and the door loosened ever so slightly as she pulled on the knob, but it wouldn't give. He was in the hallway now. “Help!” she yelled again as she pulled on the knob with her entire body weight. She reached up and found a deadbolt. Turning it she tugged again at the door. It opened several inches before he hit her full force from behind, slamming her body against the door, forever closing it, the bolt’s click, like the trigger cocking on a gun, signaled the end of all hope. He threw her to the floor and dragged her by the hair back to the platform. She grasped at his hand, trying to loosen the viselike grip. He tossed her like a sack of potatoes back into her dungeon. She plunged through empty space then the bottom half of her body hit the platform, now six feet off the floor, spinning her around so she fell headfirst. She hit the floor har
d, her head bending back, snapping her neck, releasing her from the prison that had become her own personal hell.

  THREE

  Detective Hayden C. Eldridge stared at the crime scene photos the lab had sent. A seven year veteran of the NYPD, he had made detective three years ago and loved not wearing the uniform anymore. Uniforms don’t get to look at crime scene photos. Or see it through to the end. He flipped to the next photo, wondering if he was missing something his more experienced partner might have caught. His excitement at the news his partner would be Detective Justin Shakespeare, a veteran of homicide, lasted for exactly two hours after they met. Eldridge looked at the empty chair at the desk across from his, a chair that was empty far more often than it should be, and shook his head. Following the standard introductions by the lieutenant, Shakespeare had shown him around for a few minutes, then took him to his favorite lunch place. He would learn over the years Shakespeare had a lot of favorite lunch places. This one was a hot dog vendor in Central Park.

  “Listen, kid,” he had begun, half a hotdog and accompanying bun, sauerkraut and relish filling his mouth, “I've got less than five years left until I can retire. I'm not puttin' my neck out for no one or no thing. I'll tell you what I know from the comfort of my desk, but I ain't gettin' involved in no big cases.” Eldridge had felt disgust not only over his new partner's eating habits, but his lack of ethics as well. Since then he worked mostly on his own. When assigned a case, Eldridge was left to investigate while his partner chatted up his girlfriend at a small fifties diner in Queens, poking his head in from time to time. Eldridge taught himself the ropes and became quite a good detective if he did say so himself. And little of it thanks to Detective Shakespeare.